


Come Back to My Corner

by batty_lite



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: It's a Wonderful Life, M/M, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batty_lite/pseuds/batty_lite
Summary: Christmas can easily be the most stressful time of the year. Pete sometimes forgets what he's worth. Patrick has been waiting 400 years for this opportunity.The next morning, Patrick flings open the door between the bedroom and the bathroom and gives Pete a furious look. In his towel, he’s soaking wet, dripping water into the carpet, and shivering.Patrick is frustrated enough to cry. “Water heater is broken. Shower is freezing,” he tells Pete, voice cracking slightly.It's an It's A Wonderful Life AU! With a twist, I guess.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44
Collections: Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick 2019





	Come Back to My Corner

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've finished and posted in five years! Hopefully more to come soon...
> 
> Title is from The Woodpile by Frightened Rabbit, because it gives me warm Peterick vibes.

The prayers come to Patrick while he’s banging on the piano in the great hall. They aren’t prayers, really, because no one who thinks them believes in a physical Heaven, but they’re wishes of good intent. Patrick shakes his head and ignores it at first, but the intentions don’t stop coming, growing greater, and soon Patrick can't hear the sounds of the piano over the intensity of the thoughts of others. He pushes himself away from the piano at the same time a man appears in the doorway. 

“Prayers for Pete Wentz,” Joseph explains. Patrick frowns slightly. “I know how the last one turned out. Are you ready to try again?” 

Patrick’s limbs feel heavy. The last time had not been a disaster, but Patrick had been quickly replaced by a newer Patrick, more fun and more enticing. He had not done his job, but let it become someone else’s responsibility, and he felt bad about it. The time before that had not gone as planned either, and neither had the job before that.

“He has his own Patrick,” Patrick tells Joseph. “He always does.” 

“I know, but this time might be different. Don’t you think you should try?” 

In truth, Patrick does not feel like trying. Chasing after Pete is a lost cause, Patrick has learned through multiple lifetimes. In every lifetime, Pete already has his own Patrick, and Patrick never gets what he wants. Unconvinced, he gives Joseph a blank look.

“I really think you could get your wings this time.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Joseph sighs and continues, “I really think he’s grown in these past few years. I really think you should try. You will feel bad if you don’t, and something tells me this time is special.” 

_How much can one really grow in one lifetime,_ Patrick thinks sourly. _Try 500 years._

“Yeah,” Patrick says finally. “Yeah, I’ll do it.” He agrees because it’s been too long without his wings, and not because he's a sucker for Pete Wentz. He agrees because the Senior Angel is beginning to question his ability to do his job, and not because he aches with how long it’s been since he last saw Pete. 

Joseph’s face shows no indication of how he feels about the subject. “Then we need to talk to Senior.” 

The Senior Angel’s office is located at the top of the northwest turret. A tall spiral staircase leads up the doorway of the office, and Joseph, familiar with the intricacies of the building and Senior’s office, climbs the staircase with minimal effort, while Patrick trails behind. 

Patrick steps into the threshold of the office just in time to hear Joseph say, “— and Patrick is the only one for the job, sir, Pete is unlikely to respond to anyone else.” 

“And why’s that,” Senior drawls. His voice reveals that he is unsure of Patrick's competency. 

“Sir, you should know, Petes can be difficult to help,” Joseph says tentatively. “They can be emotional, high-strung, and a little unpredictable.” 

“You’ve got to let me try,” Patrick pleads as he steps through the doorway to the large office. His breath is ragged from climbing the staircase. “Please, sir, it’s Christmas, and I really think I could get my wings this time.” 

Senior spins in his chair and fixes Patrick with a tired look. “Patrick, I hear you, but you’ve been here over three-hundred years and still haven’t earned your wings. What makes you think this time is going to be any different?” 

Patrick takes a quick step backwards, taken aback, and swallows. “I— I don’t know but I’ve got to try, sir, you know? It's my responsibility to make sure nothing happens. Everyone is worried, sir.” 

The Senior Angel is known to be terse. “Fine then,” he says lightly. “You save Pete Wentz's life, you get your wings.” 

“Thank you, sir, really—” Patrick breathes, before Senior interrupts him.

“Make sure you review the books. If you can’t get your wings this time, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

Patrick doesn’t need to review the books, he knows the story like the back of his hand.

A week before Christmas break, Pete throws the door to the shared apartment open and deposits his belongings on the floor in a heap. 

“How was band practice?” Joe asks, as if Pete hasn’t come home every day this week pouting and bitter, complaining that someone said this, or someone wouldn’t let him do this.

“Fucking sucked, dude,” Pete says, almost whining. “They won’t let me change the words to this one line, but I’m the one singing it. I wrote it, too, so how’s that make any sense?

“The problem is, really,” Pete continues, “Is just that they don’t like me. If it was anyone else it’d be fine, but they think I suck, so everything is a fucking chore.” 

From the couch, Joe twists to face him. “Dude, why do you even gig with them?” 

“‘Cause who else am I going to hang out with? Swear to fucking God, dude, if I start my own band, you’re the first one I’m asking.” 

Joe throws a thumbs-up over the back of the couch and Pete wanders off to his bedroom.

The following night, Pete flings the door open and announces, “Trohman, me and you are starting a band.” 

“What happened to the band you already have and love?” 

“Don’t know,” Pete replies. He’s beaming. “Because I just fucking quit.” He flips Joe off, just for fun, and says, “Please find me a drummer.” 

“Ask your boyfriend,” Joe retorts. 

Pete sighs, and says, “He won’t do it. He really thinks he’s going to make it in business statistics.”

“He thinks that? Or his dad thinks that? Waste of talent, man, he’s an idiot.” 

“Patrick really is just the stupidest,” Pete agrees. “So please find me a drummer.” 

“I might know someone,” Joe says thoughtfully, and Pete disappears into his bedroom to piss off said boyfriend. 

Andy is a challenge, mostly because he’s already in high demand. Joe describes him as ‘legendary,’ and Pete snorts at that. Andy is a challenge, but a challenge Pete is not willing to back down on. 

“Just come chill out, it’s just for fun,” Pete insists every time they see each other, at open mic night, at a bar that doesn’t card, or in someone’s basement. 

Andy finally agrees, and afterwards, Pete is desperate not to lose him. 

“See?” Pete says excitedly. “I told you it’d be fun, man, you gotta hang out with us again. We’re gonna do good,” he insists. 

Andy is noncommittal. “Honestly? You guys suck, but it was fun. Ditch your other guitarist, and find some fresh talent, and we can talk.” Andy leaves him with a pat on the shoulder and Pete counts it as a win. 

“I told you,” Joe says over pizza later that night. “He’s like, major leagues, and he plays hard to get. It’s a good move. Patrick would like him.” 

Patrick swallows and looks to Pete for help. “What?” 

“We’re trying to get Andy Hurley to join the band,” Pete explains, mumbling around a mouthful of pizza. “Also, Joe has a crush on him.”

“I do _not._ ” 

Patrick’s papers are littered carelessly over the living room carpet. Pete sighs; he’s tired and little horny, and he needs Patrick to come to bed as soon as possible. 

Pete sighs again, just for show, and says, “Join my band. Stop studying business statistics, whatever that is, and join my band.”He flips himself upside down in the armchair and stares into Patrick’s eyes, pouting. 

“You think that’s charming,” Patrick questions. He doesn’t look up from his homework, and he doesn’t look convinced either way. 

“Please?” Pete tries, whining. “You’re gonna love it.” 

Patrick glances at him and Pete gives him his most winning smile. 

“My parents would _kill_ me,” Patrick says, like he’s saying it for the millionth time. It’s not the first time Pete has asked him to join his stupid band. “And I’ve seen your band. You’re not good.” 

“I know,” Pete laughs, and grins harder. He swings his legs off the chair and presses himself to Patrick from behind. He nuzzles into Patrick’s neck and kisses his shoulder, a hint of tongue and teeth. “That’s why we need you— and also Andy Hurley.”

Patrick’s look of disgust is quickly dissipating as Pete slides his hand down Patrick’s chest and lets it rest below his navel. Pete sticks his tongue in Patrick’s ear and growls and Patrick inhales sharply. 

“Pete, c’mon, don’t be a tease,” Patrick breathes. Pete laughs and bites at Patrick’s earlobe, his neck, his cheeks. 

“Join my band,” Pete whispers. His fingers rest in the crease of Patrick’s hip. Patrick pushes his hips to Pete’s hand. 

“Yeah, what the _fuck,_ I’ll join your shitty band,” Patrick grumps, breathless, and then whines, “Please touch me.” 

“You’re gonna _love_ my shitty band,” Pete breathes into Patrick’s ear, before he drags Patrick down the hall to his bedroom, leaving Patrick’s papers strewn over the carpet.

“I’m not flying home for Christmas,” Patrick tells him while they lie in bed together Thursday evening, limbs a tangled mess beneath the comforter. There’s a Christmas special open on Pete’s laptop and Patrick’s fingers are in his hair.

Pete takes a moment to register Patrick’s words. He frowns. “Why not? I thought you already bought the ticket.” 

“I didn’t. I did the math, and I can’t afford it. I have too many other expenses,” Patrick says. His hand stills in Pete’s hair. 

“You have to go home. It’s Christmas.” 

Patrick shrugs. 

The day after is the last day of finals. Patrick broods the whole day, even after his exam. The air in the apartment is tense and heavy and it makes Pete feel itchy. 

“Just come home with me for Christmas,” Pete says when he can’t take it anymore.

Patrick is stirring something in a skillet on the stove. He spins and gives Pete a look of disbelief. 

Pete protests quickly. “What? My mom likes you, and she knows we’re serious about each other, so she won’t mind.” 

“I already told you, I can’t afford a plane ticket. What makes you think I can afford to go home with you?” Patrick crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’ll pay for it,” Pete tries quickly. “Or my mom will pay for it.” 

“No! I’m not letting your mom buy a plane ticket for me, those are expensive!” 

“Who cares about the money? It’s not about how much it costs, it’s about you being alone for Christmas,” Pete tries again, and notes Patrick’s cold look. 

“I get it,” Patrick snaps. “Your family has money, and I’m poor.” 

Pete sighs, leans back against the counter, and says, “You know that isn’t what I mean.”

“Okay, well, I need you to know that that’s what it sounds like every time you offer to do something like this,” Patrick argues back, and like that, the conversation is over. Patrick sulks for days, and Pete doesn’t get it. 

Days later, while Patrick is still upset, Pete brushes his teeth while Patrick is in the shower. He spits toothpaste into the sink and asks, “Hot or cold?”

The water heater has been finicky for weeks. From the shower, Patrick sighs. “The shower is hot. When are you going home for Christmas?” 

Pete stares at himself in the mirror and chooses his words carefully. “Sunday, but I was thinking— what if I just stay here for Christmas? We can just have our own Christmas, together.” 

“You already paid for the ticket.”

“I could sell it.”

“You’re just pitying me. Can we please just drop it?”

Pete stiffens, though Patrick won’t notice. “I just don’t want you to spend your Christmas sad and alone, how’s that pitying you?” Pete snaps, and then says, “I’m going to find something on TV, come hang out if you want.” 

Patrick doesn’t join him on the couch, and Pete falls asleep to the dramas of Dexter Morgan. Patrick shakes him awake gently when it gets late.

Pete blinks awake and sits up carefully. Patrick is staring at him with a disappointed look, and Pete can feel the tired tension between them. “Sometimes,” Pete mutters. “I think things would be easier if I just didn’t exist."

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Patrick replies. He kisses Pete’s hair and grabs his hand. “Please, let’s just go to bed.” 

In bed, Patrick curls his tired body around Pete and says, defeated, “You don’t have to stay, I just couldn’t sleep.” Pete pets his shoulder and listens to Patrick’s even inhales and exhales until he’s sure Patrick is asleep, and then he retreats back to the living room and watches half of the third season of The Shield. He reminds himself that tomorrow is a new day. 

The next morning, Patrick flings open the door between the bedroom and the bathroom and gives Pete a furious look. In his towel, he’s soaking wet, dripping water into the carpet, and shivering. 

Patrick is frustrated enough to cry. “Water heater is broken. Shower is freezing,” he tells Pete, voice cracking slightly.

Pete considers his soggy boyfriend carefully. The shower had been hot and cold for a couple of weeks, but it’s not the temperature of the shower that bothers Patrick.

“It shouldn’t be that much to fix, love, and we can split it—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Patrick interrupts, tugging on jeans and his sweatshirt. “It doesn’t matter if we split it, I still can’t afford it!” 

From the bed, Pete watches Patrick dress and frowns. “Then you don’t have to pay for it, the rest of us can split it, or I’ll just pay your part.” 

“Oh my God,” Patrick says, voice strangled. “I don’t want you to pay for it! You’re not going to fix it, Pete, please just leave me alone.” 

“Okay,” Pete replies, because there are days where everything is too much, where Pete cannot handle the company of others. There are days when Pete needs to sit alone and pretend he will do something stupid, and pretend that no one would care. He leaves the apartment with a sense of urgency, reverses out of the short driveway, and begins the drive to the bridge with cold hands. 

“Joseph,” Patrick insists. “I know all of this already, I have to go.” 

Joseph rambles on about the minute details of Pete’s life, and Patrick nods expectantly. He is correct in saying that he knows it all— knowing the minutia of Pete’s life, and his relationships with a different Patrick in every lifetime, is a feat that Patrick takes pride in as a guardian angel. Not many are so meticulous, but then again, not many guardian angels are tied to their people in the way that Patrick is. In life, Patrick had held his own Pete, until Pete’s wealthy family was involved in a political scandal involving an illegal transfer of money and an illegitimate child. They were both young and without autonomy, and Pete had refused to tell him the details, but Patrick had pieced it together through newspaper clippings and the few things Pete had divulged to him under bedsheets on their night’s alone. Pete’s family had moved overseas, separating them indefinitely, and Patrick had been nothing less than heartbroken. Even in death, he misses him fiercely. 

“I have to go,” Patrick says again, breathless. 

Joseph closes the book of Pete’s lives and gives Patrick a solemn look. “Good luck,” Joseph supplies. “I really think this could be something special.” 

Patrick expects nothing. He scratches at the back of his neck, closes his eyes tight, and opens them to a short drawbridge and blinding headlights.

The bridge is short in length, but high above the river. The day is drawing to a close, and had been cold enough for only the most weathered men to endure. The sun sinks slowly over the trees perpendicular to the bridge, a casual reminder to Pete that he had spent another day sulking. 

Pete parks the car on the edge of the bridge and opens the door slowly. The outside air is bitter cold and raw, indecent, and only appropriate for Pete’s mood. He walks slowly along the shoulder of the road until he reaches the center of the bridge, and then sits on the edge, thighs between the slats of the guardrail. Pete puts his head in his hands and peeks between his fingers at the water swirling below.

“You’re a coward if you don’t jump,” Pete whispers to himself. He won’t do it. Sitting on the bridge is a hobby, a friendly reminder that life is fleeting. If Pete can get this close to death, he can remind himself he doesn’t want it. 

Patrick watches him from the end of the bridge and wonders how much time they have. He watches as Pete peeks through his hands to the water below, and Patrick peers over the edge to look for himself.

The river below is murky and obviously frigid. Clumps of dirty snow, refrozen, sit along the banks of the river, and the freezing water swirls in peaks beneath the bridge. A film of white foam sits atop the peaks of the water, brought to the surface by disturbances below. Pete leans against the guardrail on the bridge and stares into the void below, and Patrick- well, Patrick strips himself of his scarf and coat, slides between the slats in the guardrail, and jumps. 

The water is a penetrating cold, piercing Patrick’s chest and knocking the breath out out him. Shocked, Patrick inhales a mouthful of muddy water and thinks, panicking, that maybe he really can die twice. _If Pete doesn't jump,_ Patrick thinks, struggling against the tow downstream, _I really am dead._

He kicks against the water, up and against the flow tugging him downstream, and squeezes his eyes tight. After what seems to be an eternity of thrashing, he resurfaces, coughing and gasping, before he remembers how to swim. 

Treading water frantically, Patrick inhales as much oxygen as he can and calls, “Help!” 

There’s a massive splash beside him, and then Pete emerges from the darkness, mouth open and wet hair plastered to his forehead. Patrick reaches for him desperately, and Pete seizes the front of Patrick’s shirt and pulls him above the water. Patrick coughs against him, still spluttering, and grasps for something for leverage, but Pete is all wet skin, and Patrick slips underwater again. Pete yanks him upwards.

“Come on,” Pete gasps. “You gotta kick.” 

_Motherfucker, I’m trying,_ Patrick thinks, and instead chokes out, “Yeah,” and kicks and flails as hard as he can while Pete makes an honest attempt to drag them to the riverbank. Pete’s fingers grapple at a rock at the river’s edge and Patrick takes a deep breath, pulls himself from Pete’s grasp, and stands in the shallow water. 

He’s soaking wet, jeans and buttoned shirt dripping dirty water back in the river. He watches Pete drag himself out of the water and onto the marshy bank, mostly solid from the cold, and shove the hair out of his face, panting. 

Pete’s Christmas-themed boxers, adorned with multiple holes, are stuck to his hips and the fronts of his thighs, and Patrick tears his eyes away from Pete’s wet body and gasps, eyes wide, “You saved my life.” 

“I think,” Pete says, wheezing. “You saved mine. I was gonna jump, and then—” 

He waves a hand at Patrick, and looks over Patrick’s wet clothes, then finally up to his face, and says, “Oh, _fuck._ ” 

“Oh, now wait— it’s not what you’re thinking, I’m not Patrick— or I’m not your Patrick,” Patrick says, and Pete stares at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“Yeah,” Pete replies nervously, because that’s all he can think to say at the moment.

Patrick continues quickly, “I can explain, it’s gonna be fine, I’m your guardian angel and I just saved your life, but we can talk about that later— do you want to get dressed?” 

Pete gapes at him. “Do I— want to get dressed?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and gestures at Pete’s soaked underwear and expanse of bare skin. He tries not to look. “I mean— aren’t you cold?” 

“No.” Pete is dumbfounded, and full of adrenaline. The man in front of him knows intimate details of his life and is identical to his boyfriend, given ten years- not to mention that he claims to be an angel; the cold is the least of his worries. “Is Patrick, or my Patrick, okay?”

“Oh yeah, he’s fine. I mean, he’s pissed at you, but like physically? He’s fine.”

Pete moves to push himself off the riverbank and groans. “Oh, fuck, I need to go home.” 

“I don’t think that’s the best idea right now,” Patrick says, and wipes at the hair at the back of his skull. 

Pete looks hurt, before he wonders why he’s following directions from a complete stranger. He replies confidently, “I need to talk to him, I’m going home.”

“No, wait,” Patrick says quickly. “We can talk.” 

The adrenaline is wearing off and Pete is quickly freezing from the outside in. “ _Why_ would I want to talk to you? Do you need me to bring you somewhere? Because I will, but if not, you’re welcome that I saved your life, and I’m going home.” 

Patrick panics. “I have to get my _wings_!”

“Your fucking—? Jesus fucking Christ, did I hit my head? I’m going home,” Pete says and sidesteps Patrick. 

Patrick does some quick thinking and grabs his wrist. “I need you to take me to the hospital.” 

Pete looks at him incredulously. He had offered to give the stranger a ride. Reluctantly, Pete nods and motions to the car on the bridge. He follows Patrick up the edge of the bank to the car, actively attempting to ignore that he’s following a soaking wet stranger up the hill in the dark in his underwear. To any outsider, he looks like a regular crank. 

His clothes are cold and damp from the snow on the bridge, and Patrick shivers by the car. Pete slips his wet t-shirt on over his head and starts the car. Patrick slips into the passenger seat and refuses to fasten his seatbelt. 

“I can’t even _die,_ ” he whines. “It’s useless.” Pete watches him with a distrustful eye.

“If we’re really gonna ride together,” Patrick says after minutes of tense silence. “The least we can do is talk.” 

“Then talk,” Pete replies blankly. “Tell me about your fucking wings.” 

“Not much to tell you. I don’t have any, and I’m earning them by saving your life, and also because I’m your guardian angel and it’s my job,” Patrick explains, like it’s obvious.

“You’re my guardian angel,” Pete says slowly. 

“Yeah, like I’m just supposed to keep you safe. I also know everything about you, and I can grant wishes.”

“Right,” Pete says, even more slowly. “And is there any reason that my guardian angel is my boyfriend’s identical twin?” 

Patrick doesn’t answer the question. “Tell me why you were on the bridge.” 

Without humor, Pete jokes, “I thought you knew everything about me.”

“I wasn’t really gonna do it,” he says then, and wipes at his nose. “Patrick would kill me, y’know, if I wasn’t already dead.  It’s just that everything sucks, you know? Life sucks, the band sucks, and everyone has to deal with my bullshit. Sometimes I wish I’d never been born at all. I think they’d all be better off.” Pete scowls and Patrick touches his shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t be that negative, really,” Patrick says. “But fine. Congratulations, you’ve got your wish. Welcome to a world where Pete Wentz was never born at all.”

“What,” Pete says flatly. 

“You’ve got no responsibilities. No school, no job. No parents or bandmates or boyfriends to disappoint,” Patrick says flippantly. “Feel better?” 

“Wait,” Pete stutters. “I didn’t really mean that—”

Strangely, he does feel a little better. His head feels less foggy and there’s less weight on his shoulders. The temperature in the car is steadily increasing and his shirt is dry. Draped over the console beside him, his jeans are dry, too. If nothing else, he’s warmer. “No,” he says, just to be recalcitrant. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Patrick says. “We’re not going to the hospital, or home. I want to show you some things, and you’re driving.” 

“Can’t you just fly, or whatever?” Pete grouches. Patrick makes a move to play with the stereo system and Pete shoves his hands away, jerking the steering wheel to the right. 

“No,” Patrick says, annoyed. “Because I don’t have any wings.” 

“Right,” Pete mumbles. “I forgot that’s what this is really about.” 

Patrick leans across the console, head almost in Pete’s lap, and really, Patrick's blond hair and nice mouth cannot be in his lap right now, in the car, while he's not wearing pants. Pete blinks, flushing slightly, and Patrick raises his eyebrows. “You need gas. We’re stopping, stop up here,” he says, and points at a gas station on the corner. It’s falling apart, the price is unclear and the advertisements in the windows are yellowed and out of date. 

“No,” Pete says. “I never go there, it’s gross.” 

“I know,” Patrick says. “That’s why we’re going.” Pete sighs and pulls into the parking lot and up to the gas pump. A curly-haired boy leaves the desk inside and trudges through the slush in the parking lot to the car. “It’s full service,” Patrick continues. “Maybe you should come here more often.” 

Pete rolls his eyes and the window down. 

“What, should I just fill it up?” Joe asks dumbly. Pete ogles at him. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says from the passenger seat. “Pete, give the boy money for gas.” 

“I don’t— I don’t have any money on me,” Pete stutters, dumbfounded. He looks between Joe and Patrick, neither of which look impressed. Patrick makes a face of disbelief and clicks his tongue. 

“Good thing I keep an extra twenty then,” Patrick says, disappointed. He digs around in his coat pocket and returns with a twenty dollar bill and an unopened box of cigarettes. “Here,” he says to Joe. “We’ll call it even.” 

Joe takes the money and the cigarettes in silence. Still shell-shocked, Pete rolls up the window to block out the cold and turns off the car. After starting the gas pump, Joe opens the box of cigarettes and lights one. 

Patrick throws himself across Pete’s body and taps on the window, shaking Pete out of his stupor. “Hey!” Patrick says loudly through the window. “That’s illegal!” 

Pete has never wanted to be home so desperately. He’s tired and hungry and wants nothing more than to be curled up with his Patrick, on the couch or in bed. He wants boxed Mac and cheese, and a hot shower, and he needs to sleep. He thinks of the broken water heater and leans back into the headrest, sighing.

“I think I need to go home,” Pete groans. 

“You don’t have a home,” Patrick reminds him. “You don’t exist. I have some things to tell you, so we’re going drinking. And we’re going downtown, so we’ll ditch the car in a bit.”

“And how are we getting downtown without a car?” Pete asks, and Patrick gives him a sly smile that would make Pete’s heart beat faster in any other circumstance. 

“We’re walking,” Patrick says. “It’s not far.” 

Pete questions, “Can you even drink?” 

Patrick gives him a quizzical look. “Yeah, I just can’t metabolize.” 

Pete is silent, thinking, and the rest of the drive is quiet. Patrick is reserved in the passenger seat. He stares through the car window, eyes occasionally catching on a passing storefront. He lurches towards the window when his eyes linger, and Pete gives him a sideways look but keeps quiet. 

Patrick tells him to leave the car in a small lot behind a coffee shop and a women’s consignment store. There’s no meters or signs but Pete is reluctant to leave the car. 

“I don’t want a ticket,” Pete says. The car is idling and Patrick rolls his eyes, unconcerned.

“It’s going to be fine,” he insists, and strangely, Pete believes him. 

He opens the door and steps out of the car, and having no other choice, Pete follows. 

In the bitter cold, gently falling snow is blown sideways by the wind, sticking to Patrick’s fleece scarf and the folds of his coat. A wool coat and bleached-blond hair, Patrick is strikingly beautiful. The light from storefront windows on the street illuminate Patrick’s sharper features and whether it’s reality or a visual placebo, Pete would swear a hundred times over that Patrick is glowing. He struggles to look away.

Patrick walks ahead of him, obviously aware of his destination, and Pete is suddenly aware of his own desire to take Patrick’s face in his hands and press his mouth to Patrick’s pale cheeks, stained red from the bite of the wind, and his round pink mouth. He cannot think of a stranger case of emotional infidelity; Pete feels nauseated with it. Patrick glances at him from where he’s buried his face into his scarf, and the palms of Pete’s hands are instantly warmer. Pete falls in love easily, but he thinks in a panicked state of delirium, that his heart is simply not big enough for two Patricks. 

The bar of Patrick’s choosing is small and classy. A heavy front door opens to a stairwell to a basement, and Patrick holds the door and gestures for Pete to step inside. 

Pete rifles through his wallet and sighs. He says, “I don’t have my ID.”

“You don’t have a license or a birth certificate or a credit card either, my dear,” Patrick replies. “You’re nobody.” 

Patrick is sweet, but it sounds careless, and Pete stomps his feet, exasperated. After spending what feels like years wishing he didn’t exist, he is suddenly reminded of just how much he enjoys the attention of others. Downtown, no passing strangers pays him any notice anyways, but Pete is now conscious of his own invisibility. It’s a sinking feeling, knowing that the only person in the room he knows is Patrick, his ‘guardian angel.’ To everyone else, Pete is fully a stranger, an intrusion in the small bar. 

The lack of identification presents a small problem. Patrick touches Pete’s elbow gently, and motions that he’s going to speak to the bouncer, leaving Pete alone at the top of the stairwell. Christmas music and voices float up from the bar below and the doorway is warm, glittering with varnished hardwood and Christmas lights, and Pete glances around and awaits for Patrick’s return. 

“Okay,” Patrick says after a moment. “We’re all set, let’s go.” Patrick maneuvers the stairs quickly, and Pete follows him from two stairs behind, taking everything in.

At the bottom of the stairs, Patrick turns to him and asks, “Do you want anything?” 

Pete considers the question carefully, pulling a face, before he notices the bartender. Red hair, bearded, and dense sleeves of tattoos even under a white pressed button-up; Pete stumbles backwards, dumbfounded, and stutters out, “Um, Andy doesn’t drink.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick casually replies. He strokes Pete’s shoulder. “And you don’t exist. You stay here, I’ll be right back. I want a cranberry sangria.”

“Okay,” Pete says once they’re sat in a dark booth in the corner of the bar, away from Andy and most of the customers. “Sorry, but can you just tell me anything about what’s going on, or like, who you are? I feel like you owe me this.”

Patrick slides a glass across the table to Pete and gives him a small smile. Pete’s heart jumps in his chest against his will. 

“I’m Patrick,” Patrick says with the same smirk. “You know, like the one you know and love?”

“Yeah, but like, you’re not my Patrick,” Pete replies, and sips his drink. The sangria is smooth and sweet and Pete is pressed to admit he could sit here and enjoy it.

Patrick watches him swallow before he says, “Yeah, because I’m like, your guardian angel.” He continues, mocking, “And I’m like, way sexier.” 

“What, like you have powers?” 

“Like, only within my job description, but I can grant some wishes, and I do know almost everything about you. Patrick, too.”

Impatient, Pete asks, “What’s the job description?” 

“You didn’t agree that I’m way sexier,” Patrick teases. Pete gives him a tired look and Patrick hums agreeably. Patrick is mocking him.

“I’m just supposed to show you how valuable you really are,” says Patrick. He takes a swig of sangria and raises his eyebrows playfully. 

Pete takes another sip of his drink and stares at the table. Patrick’s gaze is heavy and Patrick is badgering him. It’s too close to the friendly taunting he and Patrick, his Patrick, participate in daily, and Pete frowns. 

Pete swells with petulance and impatience. Irritated, he grits out, “What? Just by showing me my friends in miserable situations to make me feel guilty about not wanting to exist sometimes? That’s a shitty thing to do.” 

“Let me remind you, you put your friends in shitty situations when you wished that you’d never been—” Patrick explains, before Pete interrupts him. 

“You’re the worst angel I have _ever_ met,” Pete hisses, and lunges across the table. He makes a grab for Patrick’s arm. Patrick laughs.

“Ooh,” Patrick croons and jumps backwards, outside of the range of motion of Pete’s grasp. “He’s mad.” 

Pete scowls at him.

“Y’know, it’s kind of hot when you’re mad,” Patrick teases. “Gets me kind of worked up, yeah? Wanna grab my wrists?” Patrick groans then, just for show and, _oh,_ is Pete blushing? This is more fun than Patrick ever had alive. 

“Fuck you, this is why you haven’t got your wings,” Pete grumbles, and Patrick’s face falls immediately. 

“Hey, now that’s just mean,” Patrick whines. “This is a learning experience! It’s a gift from me to you! Merry Christmas!

“I promise it’s all going to work out in the end,” Patrick says firmly. “I feel like you should trust me on this one, I’ve met a lot of Petes. They’re all the same.”

Pete doesn’t want to believe him. Pete has no reason to believe him, but Patrick is staring at him with eyes that are inarguably Patrick’s, and Pete officially gives up. 

“I can’t fuck my life over with this,” Pete mumbles. 

“I told you, no bullshit,” Patrick continues. “I show you some things, and you learn why you were put on this Earth. Then, you feel better, I get my wings, I put everything back to normal. Nothing’s going to happen, I promise, and I’m your guardian angel. I only want the best for you.” 

“Okay,” Pete says slowly, and asks, “So what happens to Patrick?” He then clarifies, “My Patrick.” 

Patrick makes a sad humming noise and considers Pete for a moment. “I will show you. This I can do, come with me.” He grabs Pete’s hand and squeezes his eyes closed. Pete’s hand feels very, very warm, and Pete’s head feels very woozy. If he didn’t know better, Pete would say he feels a little lovesick, and then everything feels hot and Pete is standing on the third floor of the Northwestern University library. The silence on the floor is palpable, shifting between cases of books, and in the corner, Patrick sits and stares intently at his laptop. His chunky over-ears are pushing soft hair into his face and Pete is arrested by how beautiful he is. Pete has to talk to him.

_He’s so smart_ , Pete thinks proudly and steps around chairs in his path towards Patrick. Behind him, Patrick struggles slightly to keep up. He slides across an occupied table, unnoticed. 

“Pete,” he hisses after him. “He doesn’t know who you are, you’re just being weird.” 

But Pete is on the move, and Patrick watches him closely as Pete approaches the young man. 

_He has to know who I am,_ Pete thinks to himself. This is Pete’s Patrick, the insanely talented spitfire that sleeps like a baby in Pete’s bed and knows all of Pete’s buttons, good or bad. They’re soulmates, made for each other in every way, and Pete will find his way to him in every universe.

“Hey,” Pete says, like he always does to his Patrick. Patrick shoves his over-ears off and gives Pete a questioning look. Patrick’s eyes hold no inkling of recognition and Pete feels thoroughly invisible. He’s never felt smaller in his life. 

“Hi, uh, do you need this table?” Patrick asks. He closes his laptop slightly and moves like he’s going to pack up his bag. “I’m going to leave soon anyways.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Pete says awkwardly.

“Okay,” Patrick says, and gives Pete a tight smile. Correction, this is the smallest Pete’s ever felt in his life. Patrick looks a little uncomfortable and more than a little confused and Pete wants to hold him as close as possible until he wakes up from what feels like an endless bad dream.

“Pete,” the other Patrick says again from behind him. “Let’s sit over here for a minute.” 

Nervous, and emotionally blindsided, Pete follows. He can’t stop himself from staring at Patrick, who glances at him worriedly every few minutes. 

“He doesn’t know who I am at all.” 

Patrick shrugs. “I told you.” 

Patrick closes his computer and leaves the library minutes later, backpack slung over one shoulder. He stashes his over-ears in his backpack and zips his coat with fumbling hands before he goes. 

“Here we go,” Patrick says, and touches Pete’s elbow. “Keep up.” 

Patrick, a practiced Northwestern student, moves deftly down the library stairs, dashes between students and blends into the background. Pete moves quickly to keep up with him. It’s not quite enough, and Pete’s guardian angel is three steps in front of him at all times, shadowing Patrick almost perfectly. Patrick ducks quickly into a side corridor and leaves the library through a backdoor. Pete hurries to catch up, jogging in the hallway, and slips through the door before it slams closed.

It’s bitter cold outside, but bright. There is Christmas lights strung along the bushes that border the library and clumps of dirty snow litter the sidewalks. Patrick is still on the move, face buried in the collar of his coat to keep out of the cold. He enters a coffee shop on the corner, filled with university students, and Pete stops outside and stares in the window. 

Beside him, Patrick’s voice says, “We’re staying out here.” His hand is wrapped firmly around Pete’s bicep. Pete nods and observes through the window, feeling only slightly perverse for watching.

Inside, Patrick greets another young man. Patrick lights up when they meet. He’s taller, with dark hair, and he stands stiffly from his chair and touches Patrick’s wrist gently. Patrick looks taken aback. 

The conversation between them is fast and heated. The dark haired man says something to Patrick with sad eyes, and Patrick’s face goes from confused to flushed and angry in a matter of seconds. Patrick’s mouth moves quickly; he wildly gesticulates between them. The other man touches Patrick’s shoulder gently, and Patrick extends his arms as if to shove him away. They exchange a final word, and a moment later, Patrick stumbles out of the cafe, already sniffling.

If Pete had thought Patrick was too quick to follow before, there’s no way he can keep up now. Patrick wipes at his eyes and rounds the corner on his toes.

With his hand still on Pete’s arm, the Patrick beside Pete hems and haws. 

“It’s gonna be a long walk. Let’s just—” 

Patrick’s hand tightens around his bicep, and Pete’s toes tingle, and then he’s watching Patrick jog up the sidewalk to the apartment he knows like his own handwriting. But Pete doesn’t live there, and Patrick goes home to Joe and Andy.

Pete watches Patrick fumble with the key in the door to the apartment, eyes red with tears and his face flushed from being angry and embarrassed. 

“Let’s be invisible for a minute, we’re going inside,” Patrick says. Patrick takes his hand and Pete’s heart pounds and suddenly feels very light.

Patrick flings the front door open violently and stomps over the threshold. Invisible, Patrick catches the door behind him and motions Pete inside. Pete takes a nervous step through the door and Patrick swings the door closed so it slams naturally. The apartment is familiar enough to be uncanny, and Pete is consumed with the thought that he doesn’t live here anymore.

“Dude, are you alright?” Joe asks, and Patrick gives him a look that would obliterate Pete on sight. 

“No! I’m chubby and unloveable and I suck at _everything_! And I’m getting a degree in business statistics! I don’t want a job in fucking business!” Patrick yells. 

Pete makes a strangled noise and reaches his arms towards Patrick, and beside him, Patrick fists his hand in the back of Pete’s shirt and hauls him backwards. 

“Shh,” Patrick hisses through his teeth. “Just watch.”

Patrick drops his backpack with a loud _thump_ to the living room floor and storms to his bedroom. The lock clicks into place behind him.

_That’s the empty bedroom_ , Pete thinks, because Patrick had moved everything he owned into Pete’s room the day after they’d first slept together and never moved it back.

“It’s supposed to be Christmas!” Patrick yells from behind the closed door. “It’s Christmas and I’m fucking stuck here because I can’t afford a god-fucking plane ticket!” What he does then, Pete can only guess, but Patrick shuffles around sniveling for minutes before the apartment becomes strangely silent. 

Pete shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans to keep himself from jumping up and knocking on Patrick’s bedroom door. 

“I think I’ve seen enough,” Pete says quietly. 

“Not yet,” Patrick says from beside him, taking Pete’s hand. Everything feels warm and syrupy again, before they’re standing on a manicured lawn in a Chicago suburb when Pete comes to consciousness again. The house is large, no doubt purchased with a great sum of cash, but the lawn is dead from the cold, brown and crispy under Pete’s shoes. Christmas lights glow in the window of the house. In the driveway, Patrick leans into the backseat of his car and returns with a battered backpack, the same one he’d dropped on the floor of the apartment what feels like only minutes before. He’s heavier now, a little unhealthy looking, and Pete hates himself for thinking it. At closer look, he looks bone tired and emotionally exhausted, a look that Pete unfortunately knows well from many sleepless nights of exams and Pete’s self-deprecating crises. 

Patrick stumbles up the walkway to the house and a woman opens the door for him, sandy blonde hair falling past her shoulders, and a small child hugs Patrick’s knees. There’s another, and another, three children in total, and Patrick touches each of them on the head and kisses the woman in the doorway. 

While Pete’s brain is still hyper-fixated on thought of tiny Patricks, the Patrick beside him shuts his eyes and appears on the hood of the car, legs crossed at the ankles. 

“You can have everything you’re supposed to want and still not be happy,” he says absently. “Want to go inside?” He gestures towards the house.

“That seems intrusive,” Pete mumbles. He shifts his weight uneasily.

“That’s too bad,” Patrick says sadly. They stare into the window of the house together, pondering in unison, before Patrick pushes himself off the hood of the car, and Pete follows him into the house. The interior of the house is large but messy; toys and knick knacks litter the floor and the shelves and Pete feels claustrophobic almost immediately. He nearly trips on a toy train and catches himself by grabbing the back of the couch. Patrick grabs his shoulder. 

“You’d never let a house fill up with tchotchkes,” Patrick says, toeing around a stuffed elephant. He looks around and pulls a face. “Christ, the last thing these people need is more stuff.” 

The kitchen is decorated to the hilt with tacky seasonal decor, Christmas dish towels and a cheap plastic tablecloth. 

By the stove, Patrick’s wife says, “Can you unload the dishwasher?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’ll do it in a bit.” 

On the stairs, two kids are screaming playfully. 

“Can you please go tell them to stop? They’ve been loud all afternoon, and my head hurts.” She gives Patrick an exasperated once-over and sighs. Patrick gives her a tired look and stumbles off without a word to ruin the fun. 

Next to him, Patrick touches Pete’s forearm, fingers splayed over his wrist. He gathers his thoughts for a second and then says drily, “It’s easier to just settle down and have some kids than to admit you have feelings for someone you shouldn’t and let the shit storm drown you. When’s the last time someone gave you shit for having a wife and kids?” 

He gives Pete a questioning look, almost mocking, with his eyebrows raised. Pete blinks at him. 

“It’s sad really,” Patrick continues. “You lose a lot of soulmates that way.” 

“Who?” Pete says blankly, and swallows. He stares at the floor and feels his heart sink. Patrick gives him a confused look. “Who does he have feelings for?”

Patrick’s laugh is stilted and unexpected. He waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s not important. Wanna see how things end up?” 

_Not really,_ Pete thinks. He gets it, really. Patrick is miserable. It’s only a moment in time, but more telling than Pete had expected. Pete’s stomach twists, and thinks he has had enough of watching Patrick be miserable without being able to do anything about it. Patrick, his Patrick, is not destined for a normal life. Pete will make sure of it. 

“I don’t think I need to see it,” Pete says thickly. Patrick puts a hand to his shoulder and Pete’s chest feels fuzzy, the same way he feels when Patrick gazes up at him while they chat before bed, his head on Pete’s chest. 

“No really, I’ve seen enough,” Pete insists, and Patrick chuckles. Pete feels his fingers and toes warm and squeezes his eyes closed, braving himself for the worst.

The apartment is cramped and poorly lit. It smells like dust and slightly of alcohol. The shelves that line the living room are cluttered with unopened books and tiny animals that haven’t been touched in years, much like the previous house. In the center of the room, Patrick is asleep in a battered armchair. He sleeps like he’s dead, arm flung over the side of the chair, legs stretched out in front of him. A rerun episode of _How I Met Your Mother_ plays on the television. 

Pete swallows the lump in his throat. 

Beside him, Patrick considers the scene in front of him and hums. “So, is it better to be miserable and live with people you hate or be miserable and die alone?” He strides to the kitchen and pulls open the refrigerator door. 

“Are you hungry? I hope not, because all that’s in here is a carton of eggs, an expired carton of milk, and—” Patrick pulls out a takeout contain and peeks inside. “Leftover pad Thai? I wonder how old this is.”

Still in the living room, Pete stands with his fists clenched by his sides, trembling. His eyes flicker between Patrick in the armchair and Patrick in the kitchen. 

In the kitchen, Patrick peers at the papers littering the countertops. “Oof, _another_ court hearing? This is getting ridiculous.” 

“Where’s the kids?” Pete asks, stilted. Patrick sighs in his sleep from the armchair. 

Patrick is still considering the papers on the counter. He stacks the papers neatly before he turns to Pete and explains, arms outstretched, palms to the ceiling, “The court prefers not to give kids to people who show up to hearings wearing dirty clothes and inebriated. Moms prefer that, too.” 

Pete grinds his teeth together. This is not his Patrick. Pete’s Patrick is cautious and kind and fiercely loyal. His Patrick is beautiful and a mastermind of taking care of others and many other things. He is not, and never will be, a middle-aged loser with no social life who does a poor job of meeting the basic requirements of self-care. Pete stares blankly at Patrick in the kitchen and feels nauseous. 

Patrick briefly peers at some unopened mail before he turns to Pete and asks,“Are you ready to go?” 

Unable to speak, Pete nods stiffly and clears his throat. Patrick takes his hand and gives him the biggest smile he can manage, warm like the fuzzy feeling growing in Pete’s chest. Pete feels his anxieties waver. 

Back in the living room of the shared apartment, Pete feels explosive. He’s supposed to have learned, and supposed to feel better about himself. Instead, Pete is presented with a wall he can't climb, an impossible challenge. It hurts like a knife between his ribs, and all he can do is furiously pray that they don’t end up like that. He can’t fix anything in a world in which Pete Wentz does not exist.

It still hurts. Patrick is looking at him with a look he can’t read and Pete takes a deep breath. 

“Why are you showing me that?” Pete shouts. “That’s not my Patrick! That’s not my Patrick, I know it isn’t, and I still feel bad about it! And then what?” 

Patrick’s eyes are welling with tears. Pete can easily see them from standing so close.

“No,” Pete mumbles, and grabs Patrick’s hands. Patrick stares up at him with wet eyes and Pete shakes his head forcefully. “No, no, don’t cry, I didn’t mean—”

Patrick touches his chest and Pete forgets how to breath. The room is suddenly stifling warm. The radiator hums with warm air in the background and Pete touches the small of Patrick’s back gently. It’s eerie, touching someone he knows so well and doesn’t know at all. Pete’s hands are hesitant and Patrick’s lower lip trembles. 

“Don’t you see?” Patrick cries. Pete doesn’t. Patrick is shaking like it’s painful, and Pete stands confused, thumbs pressed gently to Patrick’s spine. “In your universe, you get Patrick. In this universe, I’m your Patrick. Pete, in every universe, you get Patrick, don’t you get it?” 

Pete gets it. He knows why everything feels familiar. He’s Patrick, but he’s _so_ Patrick and Pete’s head spins. This is every Patrick.

“But Patrick doesn’t always get Pete,” Pete says dully. Patrick’s face is open and vulnerable. Tears stain his cheekbones, and he sets his jaw against a life time of broken hearts. Life is so fucking _unfair_ , Pete thinks as Patrick stares at him with tear-filled eyes and twisted face. 

“I would never want anything bad for you,” Pete continues, and Patrick presses their ribs together and kisses him then, hands trembling on Pete’s cheeks. 

“Please, Pete. While I’m here, I need this.” 

There is not a universe in which Pete says no to his Patrick, to any Patrick. Pete hikes Patrick’s thighs, full even at his tiniest, over his hips, and Patrick clings to him. Pete can’t tell if Patrick says _don’t let go_ out loud, or if he just thinks it, but either way, Pete understands. Pete is never letting go, even if it makes shedding the layers of clothing between them awkward as they stumble down the hallway together to Patrick’s bedroom. Pete deposits him on the bed, not ungently, and stands long enough to pull his shirt off over his head. Patrick watches him urgently, arms extending towards him, begging to touch, and Pete shoves the hem of Patrick’s shirt up to his armpits and bites at his prominent ribs. Above him, Patrick pants and gingerly wiggles out of his t shirt. His fingers curl in the longer hair that frames Pete’s face and he cries out when Pete ghosts a breath over a pink nipple and smooths his hands down Patrick’s sides. 

“Let me,” Pete whispers when he curls his fingers in the waistband of Patrick’s pants. Patrick nods, eyes squeezed closed tight enough to hurt, and Pete peels Patrick’s pants and boxers off together and tosses them to the floor. 

Lying across Pete’s bedsheets, fully on display, Patrick flushes from head to toe. His thick red cock rests heavy against his stomach and he trembles under Pete’s heavy gaze. He’s the most gorgeous thing Pete thinks he’s ever seen, and he tells Patrick so and revels in the way Patrick pushes up into the hands on his chest.

“I love you. I love you so much, and I’ll prove it,” Pete breathes. His voice is shaking, whether from nerves or raw emotion. His hands are in his own hair, pulling, as he says, “Tell me. Whatever you want, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Patrick grabs at him desperately and Pete kisses him, slower this time. He’s tuned into Patrick’s little noises, all little gasps and low breaths, and Pete’s chest is so hot it hurts. Patrick’s erection bumps the inside of his leg and Pete runs his hands down Patrick’s sides, mapping the slopes of his body, and squeezes Patrick’s thighs in his hands. Patrick moans and pulls Pete closer to kiss him; he hopes Pete’s fingers leave marks. 

“Fuck me,” Patrick whispers against Pete’s mouth, too distracted by Pete’s mouth and Pete’s hands to be embarrassed by the transparent request. Patrick cups Pete’s face in his hands, holds Pete’s mouth to him while they roll against each other, whispers between open-mouthed kisses, “Fuck me, please, I want this.” 

Pete’s response is immediate. He stutters a groan and his hands smooth over Patrick’s skin with increasing desperation, and Patrick is lost in the feeling of Pete’s body hot against him and Pete’s hands, firm and warm, discovering every inch of his skin, after being apart for so long. 

Pete moans again when Patrick slides their erections together, and gasps, “Yeah, baby, I said anything.” Pete reaches between Patrick’s legs, slick with a film of sweat, and presses two fingers against his hole, pulling off Patrick’s mouth only to watch the way Patrick’s face twitches with the anticipation of pleasure, mouth open slightly, eyes fluttering closed. Patrick pushes back against his dry fingers, making a small noise when Pete’s knuckles nudge his balls.

“Wait, let me—” Pete launches himself towards the bedside table in pursuit of lubricant, and slicks two fingers while Patrick watches. He presses slick fingers against Patrick and mumbles, asking, “Do you want me to—?” 

Patrick shakes his head and swallows. The lubricant is wet and cold against his skin and Patrick reminds himself to breathe. “Just kiss me.” 

Patrick holds Pete’s skull in his hands, mouths pressed tightly together, while Pete eases two fingers into him. Patrick is tight around his fingers and his hands are fisted in Pete’s hair, rocking against Pete’s fingers. Pete opens his fingers and waits for Patrick to give into the stretch. He inhales sharply when Patrick lets his thighs fall open fully, and Patrick moans softly, relaxes into Pete’s hands and Pete’s mouth against his. Pete adds a third, mouths at Patrick’s earlobe, and crooks his fingers, waits for Patrick to lurch against him and moan _please_ against his shoulder. And Patrick does.

Pete presses into him slowly, slides their mouths together, and rakes his fingers over Patrick’s ribs until Patrick is panting for more. Patrick wraps his hands around Pete’s hips and pulls them together.

Patrick had thought that Pete’s fingers pressed into him felt incredible, but Pete’s cock is thick and hot, and Pete’s body is pressed impossibly close to his, and it feels religious. 

Patrick wraps his legs around Pete’s waist, ankles interlocked over Pete’s spine, and whispers, eyes closed and panting slightly, “Feels best for me.” 

Pete nods and twists their fingers together above Patrick’s head. Patrick feels wonderfully exposed, and the first drag of Pete’s hips, out and back in, draws a noise out of Patrick he previously would have thought impossible. 

Pete fucks into him with firm strokes that keep Patrick arching into his chest, sweating between them and into the bedsheets. Patrick’s fingernails leave marks in the back of Pete’s hands where their hands are clasped together, and Pete kisses him like he’s worth something, soft and hot, and Patrick is breathless. He looses himself in the sound of Pete’s stilted gasps and his own soft moans and tries to cement Pete’s breaths and touches to memory.

Pete pants, “Fuck, ‘Trick,” and “Is this— are you— good?” into his mouth, and all Patrick can do is squeeze his eyes closed and nod quickly, especially when his dick catches on Pete’s stomach with every press of Pete’s hips into him. Pete’s cock grazes the perfect spot inside him with nearly every stroke, and Patrick throbs between them, untouched. Pete’s chest is a mess of precome, and Patrick aches to touch, fingers twitching. 

“Let me,” Patrick grits out, and Pete nods. He frees his hands from Pete’s grasp and reaches between them, one hand over Pete’s chest, and one fisted around his cock. The hand around his cock is a heavenly release and Patrick lifts his gaze to the ceiling and makes a desperate sound. 

Pete rearranges them almost immediately, propping himself up on his elbows on either side of Patrick’s ribs. They move together with long, slow pulls of Pete’s cock, and Pete kisses Patrick’s neck, his jaw, his face. 

“Come on,” Patrick whispers when he’s close to orgasm. Pete pants above him and Patrick can feel that Pete is nearly there from the imperfect movements of his hips and the small noises he makes into Patrick’s collarbone. “I want this, wanna feel you.” 

Pete hikes Patrick’s thighs further up his hips with his fingers wrapped tightly around the backs of Patrick’s thighs, and Patrick cries out, and lets Pete fuck him blissfully until he’s coming, grinding his cock further into Patrick and melting against his chest. 

Pete wraps his fingers around Patrick’s hand, still on his cock, seconds later, and pulls, and then Patrick is coming over both of their fists with a low groan. His thighs tighten around Pete’s hips and Pete kisses his lips, open-mouthed, and waits for Patrick to catch up to him.

Patrick is so in love with him it hurts, and Pete is here now, solid beneath Patrick’s palms, and Patrick aches for another hour. He craves another hour for Pete to fuck him senseless, until he’s winded, but they don’t have an hour, and Patrick chokes on his own words.

“All I ever wanted was to see you again,” Patrick breathes, voice hoarse and broken. Pete buries his face in Patrick’s neck and hiccups, tries to settle his pounding heart with Patrick’s sweaty soft thighs wrapped around his bony hips and bleached hair plastered to his forehead. “I love you so much.”

“Don’t go,” Pete begs. He presses his forehead to Patrick’s and kisses his mouth softly. “I love you, too.” 

“Pete,” Patrick says softly, and Pete never wants to hear his name from anyone else’s mouth every again, because no one says it like Patrick. “You have your Patrick.” 

“I know, I know,” Pete gasps, eyes glazed over. “I know, and I’m so in love with him.” Tears are gathering in the corners of Patrick’s eyes again, and Pete wipes them away gently with his thumbs. Patrick’s pale chest rises and falls underneath him. “But I’m selfish, and I want both.” 

Patrick makes a small desolate noise at that and pulls Pete’s face up to meet his mouth.Patrick kisses his nose, his forehead, his mouth, and whispers, “I know— I know but that’s not how it works. Just stay here with me for a minute,” and then, “Patrick is so lucky.” 

Pete buries his face into Patrick’s neck again and focuses on breathing, smooth ins and outs. His heart still pounds but it’s slowing over time with Patrick’s hands smoothing over his back and bodies pressed together. 

Patrick touches his shoulders lightly and Pete asks, dumbly, “Are you going to get your wings?”

Patrick gives him a sad smile and wipes at Pete’s cheeks. “I’m sure, angel, it’s very thoughtful of you to ask.” He’s quiet for a moment before he jokes, “Are you going to get some underwear without holes in them?”

Pete laughs. “Maybe next month.”

“It costs too much to live today,” Patrick replies, scowling. “Everything is too expensive.”

“Oh my God, you’re so Patrick,” Pete groans, and then whispers to the dark, “I feel like I should stay with Patrick for Christmas. I want to, but not if he’s going to be upset about it.” 

Patrick is quiet for a moment before he answers. “He wants you to,” he says softly. “He just won’t say it.”

Pete hums in response, thinking. The bedroom is a comfortable blanket of silence, Patrick’s hands still wandering, and Pete feels he would happily die here. He’s gotten this close to death before, and now, maybe he wants it. _For good reason_ , Pete thinks as he twists his fingers in Patrick’s forelock and sighs against him. He realizes Patrick is close to sleep after a moment, and shakes him gently. 

Patrick inhales deeply and tightens his arms across Pete’s shoulders. “I have to go,” he bemoans, and Pete laughs lightly and pushes the hair away from his face. 

“How are you getting home?” Pete asks. It’s almost mocking and Patrick’s lip twitches before he realizes Pete is taunting him, inviting him to stay.

“You have to take me back to the bridge.” 

Pete hums, and mumbles, “Okay, just one second,” before he kisses him. It’s slow and sweet and everything Patrick had patiently awaited. Pete kisses him like it’s more than just them, and it’s more than just sex, and Patrick tastes alcohol and sugar and something else sickly sweet in the drag of Pete’s tongue against his. 

“This is insufferable,” Pete whispers when they break apart. He rubs his face against Patrick’s cheek and Patrick laughs and tells him to get up and put some clothes on. Pete frowns.

The ride back to the bridge is not long enough. They joke, and Patrick sings loudly, and stupidly, and blushes when Pete touches his thigh over the console and lets his fingers settle a moment too long. Pete tries his hardest to be charming, though Patrick is already charmed, and when Pete parks the car at the end of the bridge, exactly where it had been previously in the day, Patrick tangles their fingers together wordlessly and stares over the edge of the bridge to the water below. 

Pete grabs Patrick’s chin and kisses him. The kiss doesn’t have the desperation either of them was expecting. It’s sweet and sticky, and Patrick maps the shape of Pete’s chest under his hands and inhales the palpable warmth of the car and the scent of laundry detergent that clings to Pete’s collar. Pete heaves an audible sigh and Patrick kisses him once more, a quick press of his mouth to Pete’s, and pops the car door. The ice outside crunches under Patrick’s shoes as he steps out of the car and into the cold.

Pete gives him a sad smile and Patrick grins back warmly. “I’ll see you soon,” Patrick says, laughing, before he slams the car door closed and steps into the shadows. 

When Pete glances into the rearview mirror again, Patrick is gone.

Pete drives the car home alone and deep in thought. The car feels empty, and Pete anxiously anticipates being home. He thinks of Patrick, his Patrick, broke and pissed about the water heater, and smiles to himself. He thinks of his guardian angel and scratches the back of his neck. He had been the most confusing being Pete had ever encountered, and so much of Patrick it hurt. It’s dark outside, and feels late, and when he arrives home, Pete sits in the driveway just long enough to collect his thoughts, before he dials his home phone number. 

“Hey, is Mom there? I need to tell her I’m not coming home this weekend…” 

“Welcome back,” Joe says from the couch when Pete flings open the apartment door like he does daily. 

“Thanks,” Pete replies, like he doesn’t mean it. “Do we have anything to eat? I’m starving.” 

Andy says, “You need to go talk to Patrick before he freaks out on us again.” 

With his hand in a bag of corn chips, Pete says, “Alright.” 

Patrick is curled up on the bed in their shared bedroom. 

“Hey,” Pete says around a mouthful of corn chips. He grabs one of Patrick’s socked feet. “What’re you doing? I heard you were freaking out about me.” 

Patrick replies, “No.” It’s a careful lie. “Where were you going to go?” he asks, and Pete laughs at that. 

“You can’t just leave without telling me though, it makes me nervous,” Patrick continues. “I’m watching something, and stop touching my foot.”

Pete takes a deep breath in. “I’m not going home for Christmas. I want to stay here with you. I already told my mom.”

Patrick stares at him and says flatly, “I told you I didn’t want you to do that.”

“I know, but I decided, not you.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says hesitantly. He pulls his knees to his chest and Pete gives him a warm grin and flops down on the bed. He curls himself around Patrick, and Patrick is soft and warm and feels like home. He points to the screen of Patrick’s laptop. “Can we watch this?” 

“You want to watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_?”

“Yeah,” Pete quips. “I’ve never seen it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first thing I published in years and I'm unsure of how it turned out but I decided to publish it anyways. I feel I stepped really far out of my comfort zone for this and I can't see myself doing it again in the near future. 
> 
> Come hang out with me @internationalsuitehearts on tumblr if you're so inclined, and have a very merry Christmas!


End file.
